Ann Arbor Review


Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde

Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet
Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke

Lyn Lifshin

Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....



Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

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The addict had more to say
Eyes churning the socket
Like stones pounding the
Shore on a wave.
"I'd collected it all,
I thought, the molten wax
Of 1000 candles in a murky
Brownish glob, wired with
Lines of all the colors, scraps of
Wick, entangled and unraveling
Draped like Spanish moss
Eating from the air
A soupy cauldron of
Toil and troubles."

I could see the chariot in flames
Spinning around his head governed
By mosquitoes darting half a
Quantum fore and aft.
He pointed to red spots on his
Arm where the vampire bugs
Drew first blood.

"Its these tattoos who
Changed my world that
Ended with my girl
All the time and money
Pushed a plunger in
A stubborn clogged drain
Just to let the dirty toilet
Water down but
Never let it out."

Spinning reels of fishing line
Letting go meters lacking scents
And the bait sifted by octopus
The lines and wisps and tendrils
Entangling in nets in strings of words
Poured to overflow the goblet
Trapping emotion to a moment
That he had and let go
That he had once and
Tried to capture.

Cats disburse in a bottle flung
From a terrace where one
Drunk idiot wants sleep
To try and quiet strangely
Human shrill calls intent
On something nothing
Comes of but insomnia
And the silence.

"I want to know to say
Where my life has gone,
Before me without me
In the hills and mountains"
Gesturing vaguely to the
Dimming twilight on a horizon
With a less than spectacular
Sunset where he couldn't
Catch his breath and
Stoned cold with his
Bottle flung it
To where nothing was.



Richard Lynch, Playa de Gandia, Valencia, Spain


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